Temptation's a Bitch
by ApprenticeofDoyle
Summary: Dean Winchester's life gets even more fucked up than usual when after he saves Sam from a serial killer, he is sucked into the world of the Fae and discovers that he's a succubus, a Fae who survives on the sexual energy of humans. Even with Fae politics, Dean has to try to ignore the attraction he feels for detective and Light Fae Castiel Novak. AU; ship;based off Syfy's Lost Girl.
1. Lying Low's for Pussies

**Temptation's a Bitch (SPN)**

_a SPN fanfic (based off of Syfy's Lost Girl) _

**Chapter One **

_Lying Low is for Pussies _

Dean's not gonna lie on this one.

The chick has a nice rack.

The skimpy little number under than leather jacket she's wearing is as tight as a second skin- a slick, sexy second skin, deep red with cute diamond stars that glitter weakly in the bar's warm light. And strings, plenty of curious little strings. The kind of strings that make the fingers twitch in anticipation of giving them a good pull, pulling and drawing them loose to get a good look at what's underneath. Her body's tilted forward, with her lean arms leaning lazily on the bar and her shoulders back, giving him him a good, clear view of, God help him, pretty amazing cleavage. And Dean's seen plenty of it in his day; it's fair to say he's pretty familiar with the subject- so when his green eyes trail idly down the deep _V _of tanned skin to view those plump beauties, you know what he's dealing with when he's almost tempted- especially when he knows he is absolutely not allowed to be.

_ Almost _tempted.

But he's knows better than that. He's only worked here for a week, Jesus. There's this concept called 'laying low' that Dean has the hardest time grasping- going for the blonde would not only flaunt him in front of the bull like a red cape, but also be a complete lack of trying on his part. He'd like to say it's the hunger gunning him on on this one, but that'd be a lie too- truth be told, the chick is smokin' hot and Dean's a simple man.

He tries to stop thinking with his cock and with his brain instead, despite how the age old hunger gnaws inside him as those pretty brown eyes hold his nonchalant gaze, fluttering those thick eyelashes with skilled, practiced confidence. Sam'd kill him if he knew Dean was even thinking about it.

But the doll's got one of those bodies you just wanna touch, just wanna run your hand across...down her hourglass waist to grip those taut, smooth thighs barely concealed under those thin tights...

The hunger suddenly rips in his core like a caged animal, ready to lunge and take prey, and he yanks his eyes away in a movement he hopes isn't too obvious. Jerking his head down, he resumes the work he's paid to do and forces the lemon wedges on the edge of the drinks he'd been making before being pleasantly distracted. He clamps down forcefully on the insatiable lust burning in his gut, and lucky for him the hunger takes it easy on him tonight, calming down like a dog obeying its master. He inhales quickly and covertly, then looks up with a stunning smile that makes the edges of his green eyes crinkle. He slides the drinks she ordered over to her with a casual hand, completely composed. If there's anything Dean Winchester knows how to do, it's how to play it cool.

The blonde takes the drinks graciously, sliding her pale, delicate fingers around to grasp each glass. She draws them closer to her breast, barely brushing the skin of her exposed chest to the chilled glass.

_Oh, boy, _Dean thinks. He's spared from having to reply from the question she asked, a question he so clearly forgot, when he hears a voice behind him.

"Comin' from behind ya." A coworker in the bar, one whose name Dean's yet to learn, slides behind him with his arms full, lugging a large cask of liquor to place beneath the bar. Dean whirls, spinning to give him more room, then turns back to the woman again as the man places the cask down beneath the bar and walks away. In his brief moment of distraction, Dean doesn't notice the quick and fast flick of a slender hand, nor the subtle hiss as the drink eats up the powder that has slid so casually into the second drink. The blonde stirs her drinks leisurely, her smile never wavering from her picturesque face. When Dean's attention is drawn back to her, the only sign of wrongdoing is the barest trace of granulated white to the side of the second glass- something that goes entirely unnoticed.

"Sorry, what was that?" Dean asks, pausing slightly as occupational professionalism keeps him from adding 'babe' to the end of that apology.

"I said, what's a guy like you doin' workin' in a place like this?" she asks again, her voice silvery and Southern sweet.

Dean gives her a coy smile. "What, can't see a guy like me working in a snazzy place like this?" He gestures lightly to the warm atmosphere of the hotel bar with a tease in his eyes.

"No, no," she says, backtracking with a cute smile that Dean's trying his damndest not to stare at. "Just that ya look like a workin' man...ya know, the type to work on cars or work fields or construction...Sure do got the muscle for it." Her chocolate eyes travel unabashedly up Dean's muscular arms, but something about her flirty gaze seems a bit too hardpressed. Dean passes it up to the obvious fact that he's just sex on legs and makes the ladies crazy, which in truth he does- for reasons not completely of his fault nor of the girls in question.

"I do like old cars," Dean surmounts passively. "But there's too much competition for vintage mechanics around here- gotta pay the bills, ya know?" The blonde nods knowingly, and Dean continues with the talkative air that's a necessity in a good bartender.

"Anybody you pay the bills for, darlin'? Girlfriend, a wife? Don't tell me a good lookin' man like you don't got a gal..." Her smile grows even wider, her scarlet lips stretching from the effort, and Dean is slightly less amorous when he replies.

"Nope, just me and my little brother." His eyes flicker to the brother in question, who's sitting with his tall body stooped over his notebook computer, at a table not too far from the bar. He's sitting by himself, oblivious to all movement around him as other people from the bar gravitate around his table, chatting and flirting and doing what all bargoers do. _Little prick's just eating up the free wi-fi. Never gonna get laid like that, Sammy. _

"Aw, that's sweet," the blonde chimes. She extends a glass towards Dean, eyes glittering. "But it's also a damn shame. Sweet, handsome man like you without a doll on his arm. How about I be your doll tonight, darlin'?" Before Dean can say anything, she pushes the second drink forward with a crimson nailed finger. Her smile isn't as wide but the edges of her lips curl as she bares her white teeth. "It'd be a shame too, if I had to drink both of these by my lonesome."

"Thanks..." Dean smiled, and he takes the drink between his steady fingers, taking care not to brush hers, and she lights up like a star. But then her eyes darken as he simply places the glass back down, gently but firmly. "...buuuut, I can't, sorry. Bar policy." He leans forward and winks. "Can't accept drinks from lovely women. Damn stupid policy, but I like having a job."

The blonde tenses, her dark eyes flashing, and Dean's all of the sudden glad of the policy. But then she relaxes, uncoiling like a cobra, and she nods. "Sure, darlin'." Her voice has lost some of its enthusiasm. "How much do I owe ya?"

"Ten fifty." She bobs her head, her blonde curls bouncing, and she takes out a twenty. He's about to give her change when she shakes her head.

"You keep that, pumpkin. Help you and your brother out a bit." Dean's eyes narrow just slightly at the proposed snark in her reply. She takes her drinks and with the intriguing swish of her pleated miniskirt she curtly struts away, her pumps clicking pointedly on the polished tile.

Dean's eyes follow her, not necessarily because her curvy butt swings like a bell, but because the predatory way she walks prods an instinct in the back of his brain like a toddler with a sharp stick. It's a nameless instinct, mostly unfounded, but Dean never ignores a gut feeling. She watches the Southern gal make her way across the bar, weaving through the bar crowd steadily to spy the next young, attractive man in the room.

To Dean's simultaneous amusement and chagrin, that next contestant happens to be Sam. Dean whistles quietly with the pitying shake of his head. Poor kid was gonna have his hands full with that one.

He watches as Sam finally looks up from the computer he loves so dearly to blink, slightly dazedly, as the girl saunters over to him and shimmies her sweet little ass down next to him, again lit up like a Christmas tree. She extends a drink to him, and he awkwardly takes it. His eyes turn sweet, so akin to a little puppy dog Dean wonders why girls aren't already clinging to his side, and soon she's drinking and laughing with the tall, shaggy-haired Winchester. Her leg brushes his once and he beams like a teenager, and she laughs and flirts like the seasoned pro Dean knows she is. He sips the drink she bought gingerly at first, but as he becomes accustomed to the taste he takes grander gulps until it's gone. Dean suddenly feels an odd pang, and he wipes the bar absentmindedly with a towel as he watches the blonde and his brother interact. Sam's gaze eventually flickers to his watch, and he gets to his feet with a tentative little wave goodbye as he leaves for the apartment to catch some Zs- it's already close to midnight and he has work tomorrow. The apartment he and Dean share is only four blocks away, and Dean will be off in a half hour or so.

To Dean's suspicion, the blonde doesn't protest at all as he gathers his laptop and leaves, walking towards the elevators to catch one down to the ground floor. But he brushes it off, tired of watching the blonde like some sort of pervert, and sets back to cleaning the bar. His eyes catch something odd, however, gaze stumbling over some sort of powder scattered lightly across the countertop. His finger slides across it, and after a moment of deliberation, he shrugs and places it gingerly to his tongue. He nearly gags, coughing on the substance, and his eyes widen in shock.

_Fuck. And it's not even my second week. Great. _With a heavy sigh, he makes the wipe the offensive substance off the counter, but then he looks at the liquid ring of the most recently placed drink and puts two and two together.

He pulls a muscle in his neck as his gaze jerks up violently, sending a ripple of hot pain down his throat, but he couldn't care less as his eyes search wildly for the blonde in the crowd of people flowing through the bar.

She's nowhere to be found.

He nearly breaks every bottle behind the bar flinging himself out from behind the counter as he dashes towards the elevators.

At this point in time, Sam Winchester is feeling pretty tired. Churning stomach aside, his eyelids are drooping and honestly, he'd like nothing more than to get a good night's sleep. He spent most of his day at the bar, working on his college paper for the community college and watching over his brother to see how he was doing. Dean seems to be doing pretty well at bartending, and really Sam didn't doubt he would- it was the matter of whether he could restrain himself with all the pretty little ladies that drifted in and out of the bar every night, always pretty and usually tipsy. Sam's relieved, though, that his brother's finally got a job he can enjoy- bartending is something Sam can imagine coming easily to his older brother. He gets paid to serve drinks and talk to people- those people usually women, women who tip rather well. It's definitely better than the last job Dean had, working at Benny's Construction. The hours had been too harsh and when Dean broke his arm after falling from a poorly secured rafter, Sam had absolutely _had _it and told him if he didn't get a safer job he was going to sell the family Impala and that he would wake up one morning with, instead of the Chevy, a Moped in his parking spot. A poor threat on his part, but the worry behind it was enough to send Dean job hunting again. Sam had a small job at the nearest electronics store that brought in a little amount of cash, but he only works every other day, instead of consecutive weekdays. It's Thursday today, he has work tomorrow- which is the only reason he got up and left to get some sleep instead of talking to the beautiful girl with the _very _impressive chest.

When he reaches the elevators, the churning in his stomach feels like someone left the stove on under a pot of water. It burns and bubbles and churns and Sam wonders briefly if he's coming down with something as he presses the elevator down button hard. The button lights up red and Sam's gaze moves to the display on top of the doors, watching as the little green numbers crawl up to his level on the tenth floor. Tenth floor, wow. Dean really is lucky to get this neat hotel job- the atmosphere alone was swanky for the Winchester boys.

Through his own thoughts and chest pains, he hears the sound of high heels clicking on tile behind him and he turns to view that lovely woman again, standing there like a scantily clad present. Her chocolate brown eyes are dark and glittering, and she zips up her leather jacket and hides the lovely pair of eyecatchers God has blessed her with. Sam tries not to be such a horndog and looks away, gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

"Hey, sugar," she says, her voice smooth like a silk ribbon. "Callin' it quits, too, huh?" Her slim, lean legs sway noticeably as she approaches Sam and the elevator with a smile like dripping honey.

"Hello," he greets, shuffling awkwardly. He gives her a small smile and tries to ignore the twitchy feeling that picks up in the back of his mind. "I just, uh, have work tomorrow, is all." The elevator beeps behind and he walks quickly into the empty elevator, sliding his thumb over the first floor button. "Floor?"

"Parking...Shucks, I understand work, darlin'. Work never stops, jus' like people don't. My job is pretty busy, too, yanking me all over the place in all hours of the night."

"Oh yeah?" When he replies, his answer is slightly hoarse. The door of the elevator closes, and with the jarring motion that signifies the elevator's descent, his vision starts to get a little..._blurry _around the edges. Sam's eyebrows raise in confusion as a wave of dizziness passes over him. The blond continues to talk, eyes glued to the elevator doors. She doesn't even notice as Sam has to lean up against the elevator wall for support as the edges of his vision darken. His stomach roars and he tastes acid in the back of his throat.

"Lady," he breathes, voice hollow as his knees start to buckle. "What did you put in that drink?" His already labored breathing becomes heavier, each inhalation becoming harder to keep in. His laptop slips from his grasp and falls to the ground with a loud clatter.

She ignores him. "Mmm hmm. I was workin' one night, and I had just got off. I was walkin' home, see, and I was only a couple blocks from my apartment. So close, when he stepped in front of me, coming outta that alley like some kinda demon. Big, tall, like you...muscular, I remember. Big hands. He was strong, too strong for little ol' me..." She finally turns to see Sam, who has slunk down to the floor the elevator, his long legs drawn up from under him as he clutches his hands to fists.

The blonde kneels down, and she traces Sam's hand with a delicate finger. He tries to lean back away from her, but she grips his chin tight. His hands relax against his will and looks up at her, struggling to keep his face from going slack. His eyes are watering and she smiles at him tenderly for a moment, her finger stroking his cheekbone. Her other hand, however, is pressing something cold and very sharp to the back of Sam's throat. He gulps thickly, and his arms are like lead weights at his side. The part of his brain that's not turning to mush is screaming at him, but as much as he tries he's completely limp. He tries to move again, to do anything, but she shakes her head and grips him tight, a crooning shush issuing from her cherry lips.

"You're the sweetest little darlin', I've ever met. So sweet, so nice. I almost couldn't bring myself to do it this time...you were just so sweet, with those puppy eyes and bashful smile. Innocent..." Sam meets her dark eyes, and they blaze with an disturbing light Sam can't believe he didn't notice before...if he did, it might have saved him. Her smile is carnivorous, like Venus fly trap.

"...But I can't let you live, not now. You see, sweetie, what that man did to me...I can't even have babies anymore. I always wanted a baby. A sweet little baby boy, maybe with eyes like yours...but now I can't. And someone has to pay for that. Some other sweeties have paid, just like you, but I don't think it'll ever be enough. You understand, don't you, darlin'? Understand someone has to pay?"

_ Christ, if she says 'darlin' one more time I'm gonna throw up in her face, _he thinks, terror and the drugs in his system making him less sensible than he should be. He should be screaming or something, punching and clawing, but the sharp thing at the back of his neck that's he's sure is a knife is a bit intimidating and the drugs in his system act like a hot, heavy blanket, suffocating him and sucking away his energy.

Suddenly, the elevator jars and the doors open with a cheery _ding,_ a floor above their first stop. The doors open to reveal a tall figure with broad shoulders, panting he struggled to get air back into his lungs, as if he'd been running. Sam's mouth struggles to move and say something, maybe that she has a knife or that he should run, but it feels likes his mouth is full of glue and all he can manage is a thick groan.

The woman freezes, and her lips curl back as she bares her teeth. She keeps her calm, however, as the Winchester takes a heavy, slow step into the elevator.

Sam looks blearily at his older brother, and if the drugs in his system weren't making him all lackadaisical and if Dean wasn't his older brother, he would have been absolutely petrified by the deadly look on his brother's face. Dean's green eyes are glacial and blazing, with his jaw set and fists clenched firmly at his sides. His eyes flicker over his brother quickly, taking instant assessment of his little brother's health. Seeing how Sam's head is in the grip of the lady with nails pressing into the soft flesh of his chin, Dean's nostrils flare.

Sam almost laughs, even though it isn't really funny at all, and nearly wants to warn the woman. _Shit's about to go down, lady. The big bro is _pissed.

"Nice to see you again, pumpkin," the blonde says, her voice annoyingly chipper. She slides the knife around into clear view, pressing it to Sam's warm neck hard enough to draw the smallest line of scarlet. A bead of blood trickles down the length of Sam's neck, and while he can't feel the pain through the drug-induced fog in his brain, the warmth of the liquid makes him tremble. "No sudden moves, if you please."

Dean has to restrain the urge to snarl. His expression is vicious at it is, teeth grinding behind pressed lips with shoulders squared. "That's my little brother, you bitch." His voice is remarkably calm and cold, considering the fiery rage boiling in his gut. The emotion brings forth another drive, the soon-to-be irrepressible longing for sustenance.

The blonde cocks her head and while her smile fades, her grip on the knife doesn't. "Happy coincidence I planned on killing both of you tonight, then. You two are just the sweetest things..." Her eyes flicker back to Sam, whose green eyes are struggling to focus and remain open.

Dean takes his chance. With inhuman speed, he lunges at her, tackling the woman and knocking the knife from her hands. Sam collapses without the woman's grip keeping him up, and he slumps to the floor. The woman gasps, thrashing wildly under Dean's grip with strength impressive for someone of her size. Dean finds himself drawing closer to her face, his eyes wide with desire.

He feels the hunger rile up in his chest, fierce and unbridled. The conscience in him begs him to stop, but his mind pushes that aside. This woman just tried to kill Sammy, drugged him and cut him and would've killed him had Dean not stopped her. She _deserves _it.

_No one deserves this, _the smallest part of his brain pleads. _Don't. _The hunger snarls in response, forcing him to stoop over the woman's struggling form and he sends his charm down through her, golden waves writhing through her body where he touches her. She stops struggling and her pupils dilate. Her body arches toward him, her luscious mouth suddenly parting as she tilts her neck towards him. Her breathing turns from angry pants to soft gasps as the desire envelops her completely, flooding her every pore. Dean knows she's doesn't care about anything anymore, doesn't care about anything but Dean and how much she _wants _him...

"Dean." His little brother's broken voice, hoarse and quiet, permeates the fog of lust clouding his brain. "No, don't. Dean, please..."

_I have to. I'm so...hungry..._

"Sorry, Sammy," he whispers, his voice a low growl. And he lets go. The sudden release forces him forward and he crushes his lips to hers, his arms gripping her tight as she melts into him. His eyes flare an unearthly blue, fluorescent and glowing, and at first the woman, is almost melting in a puddle of ecstasy. But as his grip tightens and his mouth parts over hers, she steadily tries to regain control of herself. She struggles briefly, but he strong, too strong, she can't get him off...

His lips draw back by millimeters as there's a sudden light. Vibrant, unnatural blue vespers, the same blue as his eyes, issue from her mouth into Deans, streaming like cobalt ribbons from deep within her body. She struggles harder, feeling herself start to fade. _Wrong, bad, _her body's telling her, the instinct growing more and more vehement. _This hurts, stop! _But he's like a rock, an immovable rock, and he sucks more from her, and her knees start to feel weak as her arms struggle against him.

She's moaning against his mouth in pain, pathetic now in her attempts to shove him off. "Nnnnn," she tries, as it's all she can manage. Dean's expression is liken to that of a cat finally getting its canary, fluorescent blue eyes wide with lust. His mouth presses to hers again, pulling and taking and drawing more into himself as the hunger inside is briefly sated and the beast inside reels in blissful triumph.

_ Yes, this is what I want, this is what I need...need...more. _

She stops struggling altogether, brown eyes closing as the last drops of strength and essence is sucked from her. She crumples like a leaf in his arms, smile still stretched across her face, and as he withdraws he feels stronger than ever before. His eyes return to their jewellike green color and he lets her drop to the floor like a leaf, practically drowning in his own overpowering buzz. Her lifeless body lands with a flump, smile frozen on her face.

He hears a deep moan, and he cuts his revelling off short, panting. He instantly kneels to his little brother, concern slamming across his face. Sam's face is slack and his arms and legs are noodles at his sides, and his breathing is too heavy for comfort. "Sam, Sammy, it's alright, I got ya now." Sam moans again, already half gone, and he scoops his massively tall brother and his laptop right up with superb strength, as if he's no more than a tired four year old.

The elevator door opens on the parking garage floor and he steps out of the elevator quickly, leaving the much changed body of the woman behind. His eyes scan the garage for his Impala as he whispers comforting words to his brother. "C'mon, Sammy. I'm gonna take you home."


	2. Sudden Limelight

**Chapter Two **

_Sudden Limelight _

"Yo, Cassie! Finally showed up, I see!" Gabriel waves grandly in his direction from where his small form leans on a silent police car, smile light and teasing.

Castiel rolls his eyes from afar, keeping his expression bland as he shoves down the urge to rub his eyes like a drowsy child. He caves tiredly, though, to the compulsion to pinch the bridge of his nose as the beginnings of a migraine probe the space behind his eyes. Swallowing roughly and popping his neck, he walks slowly but with the air of purpose Detective Castiel Novak wears like a second skin. This purpose, a resulting pride from living and experiencing a millennia of life, is what clearly defines Castiel as someone to respect, someone who knows what he's doing and how to do it. However, the truly outstanding thing about Novak is that his purpose is without _arrogance. _It lacks the facetiousness and cockiness of someone as self-assured as he. But after getting to know the scruffy haired detective, one comes to realize his confidence comes not from pride, but from the simple fact that he knows what he's doing, knows how to do it well, and knows that he _can do it _well.

His stride is slow and calm, to the simultaneous relief of his weary joints while saving some face in the process- walking like a haggard drunkard simply due to the hour is not a way to score respect in his colleagues' eyes.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't _feel _like a haggard drunk. Not for the last time and certainly not for the last, he curses homicidal tendency to murder in the most ungodly hours of the night in his mind with sleep deprived annoyance.

Eyeing his partner wearily from afar, he subconsciously notes the dark purple circles under his eyes, his rumpled clothing and disheveled brown hair. With all of these symptoms of fatigue, he somehow looks wide awake, his tawny eyes annoyingly bright with the same damnable enthusiasm he treats every new case with.

Castiel sighs goodnaturedly, a puff of steam passing from his lips. _So goddamn overzealous. Why can't he just be yawning, cold, and miserable like the rest of us? _

He strides quickly over to Gabe, his shoes pattering on the rough cement floor softly as he makes his way over to the police cruiser. He tucks up the collar of his dark coat to shield his neck from the cold night air, and the red and blue lights of the patrol car cast his face in harsh relief, accentuating the fatigue in his expression. He glares at his partner, as if Gabriel's avidity is personally insulting to him, and Gabriel gives him an obnoxiously cheery smile in return.

"Gotta love these three in the morning cases, huh? Being on call is such a privilege."

Cas ignores him, sighing softly to himself a second time. It isn't uncommon to be woken up so early in the morning with Gabe's grating voice coming through his answering machine, but Castiel is never going to enjoy it. But the hours of a police officer are never regular, especially those of a homicide detective, so with a good cup of joe and a good case he usually gets over it pretty quickly. At the idea of coffee, he eyes the styrofoam cup Gabriel clutches in his hands and represses the urge to snatch it and chug the warm, caffeinated liquid down.

His cobalt eyes scan his surroundings studiously. The second, parking level of the large hotel, is mostly empty and irritatingly cold. Aside from the investigators and their police cruisers, the amount of cars lining the cement walls are few in number. Aside from Gabe and Castiel, there are a couple more cops scattered around the dimly lit garage entryway, and from the number he can ascertain the homicide is of a particularly curious nature. It's a simple thing, really- the more cops there are, the stranger the crime.

And that's what Gabe and Cas specialize in, unbeknownst to the fellow officers at their precinct. He nods curtly at Milton, who rolls his eyes at Castiel's typical early-morning broodiness, and they walk through the garageway to where most of the officers are clustered, muttering amongst themselves with steaming cups of coffee clutched tightly in whiteknucled hands. The other officers clear the way upon noticing Milton and Novak, spacing out to give them a clear view of the sheeted figure lying silently in the hotel elevator.

Gabe fills him on the details. "Was called in about an hour ago. The vic- female, late twenties- was found by some lady who arrived here for a late check-in after flying in from Tampa for some board meeting. Got no ID, no hotel card. No one knows why's she's here. Estimated time of death's around 1:45 this morning. Only scrap of evidence left was a bloody pocket knife, which we're running through blood tests right now." He gestures to a small numbered card above a few droplets of scarlet blood. "The vic has no apparent cuts or scratches on her body- no actual sign of injury, really. So the blood can't be hers."

Before approaching the body, which was covered respectfully with a white sheet, Cas halts and examines the interior of the elevator. "Any cameras?"

Gabe shakes his head, and extends his foam cup to Cas. The blackhaired detective takes it graciously, his bright blue eyes defrosting in appreciation. He sips it absently but quickly, then hands it back to Gabe, grateful for the rush of caffeine that gushes through his veins. He slides a blue glove on his right hand, his eyes skirting the elevator. It seems to be clean, saving for the body itself. "Nah. The one in here's busted, we checked already. Think they got someone working on getting the garage footage."

Gabe pauses outside while Cas continues inside, kneeling beside the body. With his left ungloved hand he grasps the sheet delicately with his fingers and pulls it off the body. Immediately, he blinks in surprise, but almost as quickly he composes himself. Nothing surprises Castiel Novak. Young, twenty-five to twenty eight, long blonde hair, 5'9'' with brown eyes and an attractive figure. But even as he catalogues these instinctively observed characteristics he can't help but stare at the most obvious thing amiss about the body.

She's smiling. Widely and happily. If Cas didn't had been a less experienced man he might have shivered at the eerie expression frozen on the dead woman's face.

The gray flesh of her face is discolored, with deep, rich purples akin to bruises winding beneath the cheeks like tattooed cobwebs. Her brown eyes are clouded over with a glazed mist, like an old man's, and her once cherry lips are a deep and dead purple. Her teeth are gray past her stained lips and her sallow, colored cheeks are stretched with the frozen snapshot of a chilling smile.

_A few hours ago? _Cas ponders doubtfully. _And already experiencing rigor mortis with gray skin..._ The evidence only adds to the plethora of things about this murder that Cas doesn't understand. _This is even stranger than expected. _

"Jesus Christ." He hears a shocked voice behind him and turns to see Officer Fitzgerald standing behind Gabriel, pale as a sheet with hazel eyes wide. "What the hell happened to her?"

Gabe gives the rookie a pat on the shoulder, and he and Castiel meet eyes. Cas nods infinitesimally. "It would be good if you give Gabe and I some air to investigate, Garth," he says, as curt and polite as ever.

Gabe gives the skinny kid a reassuring grin. "Yeah, we actually have something important for you to do. Could you head on up to management and acquire the garage security footage for us? It could have valuable evidence in its logs."

Garth nods hollowly, but then he shakes himself and inhales quickly, chest puffing in self-importance. "Yes, sir." He tugs down his hat over his messy hair and walks off quickly, leaving Gabriel and Castiel alone. Gabe smiles, shaking his head at the rookie, but his brief good mood dissipates as Castiel meets his eyes again. He bends down as Cas extracts a pen from his coat pocket and lifts the woman's stiff lip to further examine the discoloration.

"She's human," Gabe remarks.

Cas nods stiffly. "The killer, however, was anything but."

Gabe's eyes narrow in assent. "Our side?"

"I would hope not." Castiel's trained hand and eyes scrutinize the woman's coat, checking and re-checking. "This kill was poorly carried out. Messy, sloppy. Bad news for us if it was Light. And I do not recognize the type of death- I can't ascertain what type did this. Do you recognize any of this, Gabriel?"

"Hell no. And if you don't, Christ, can't imagine who does." He gnaws on the inside of his cheek, champagne eyes absorbing the victim's face to imprint the signs to memory- not that this would be hard to forget. "At least she went with a smile on her face- not a bad way to go, I guess. It's kinda creepy though..."

Cas grimaces at his partner's poor humor, but his acute eyesight catches a brown strand of hair on the victim's leather jacket. Using the pen, he pins the hair to the side and plucks the hair from the jacket.

"A strand of hair," he announces gruffly. Gabriel rummages in his coat pocket and extracts a small plastic evidence bag, opening it swiftly. "Short for a woman's, long for a male's, brunette- can't be the victim's." Cas drops the hair into the bag quickly, and returns his attention to the body.

Leaning forward and close to the victim's face, he closes his eyes and inhales, slowly and deeply. A myriad of strong odors assault his highly keen sense of smell, but he's used to the experience and skilled at isolating and cataloguing each individual scent. The elevator has plenty of smells to discern- cleaning products from maids, shoe shine from business loafers, perfumes from businesswomen. Most of the scents are human, average but naturally unique to each individual. Humans all smell similarly, their differences are akin to variations of wine- the bouquets can be similar, but the overall pungency of grapes is always there. For Castiel, their particular odor is easy to pick out from other scents. The most recent emanations include the victim's own, and two others'...mixed with the fine, salty tang of blood.

Gabriel remains still, silently watching Novak do his work. His longterm partner could never cease to impress.

"The blood is human. Male," he says, eyes flicking open. "Belongs to someone who was in this elevator a couple hours ago with the vic. There was also traces of alcohol near the mouth, with the scent of a different male."

Gabriel shifts his jaw, then bobs his head as the signs add up to a previous location. "Judging from the time of death and the alcohol, plus what can only be lip action, I bet your ass this lady came from the hotel bar."

Castiel nods in agreement. He replaces the sheet, concealing the corpse and her chilling grin, and the two detectives straighten. Then they exit from the elevator and quickly make their way towards the nearest set of stairs.

"Oh, sure, I remember her!" The bartender they're questioning, an overly chipper girl by the name of Ms. Rebecca Rosen, bounces jovially as her memory returns to her. A silly young thing with mint green eyes and long grey-blonde hair, Castiel can from tell the second he sees her that she isn't going to be all that much help. "Really pretty, Southern accent- kept saying 'darlin'' and 'pumpkin'." She suddenly gasps, all trace of jubilance gone as her hand flies to her mouth. "Oh, gosh, I can't believe she's dead- I saw her just couple of hours ago!" Her eyes suddenly glitter with tears.

"Ms. Rosen," Castiel says, clearing his throat and trying not to look exasperated. Gabriel cuts him off with a shoulder bump, knowing Castiel's poor social skills when it came to consoling people. The guy can't console a puppy dog with a fresh piece of bacon, let alone an emotional young woman.

Castiel is exceptionally terrible with women.

"Becky!" the girl trills, wringing her wrists fretfully. "C-Call me Becky, everyone d-does." Gabe, nodding, gently takes her wrist and pats it reassuringly before the waterworks can begin- to Castiel's supreme relief. God knows how terrible he is with crying people (never mind crying women).

"Alright, Becky," he says. "Calm down, sweetie pie, I know this can be overwhelming. Death is a terrible, terrible thing. Take a deep breath if you need to." Becky nods tearfully, never breaking eye contact with Gabriel. He smiles, expression warm and comforting, and she inhales tremulously.

This is a good (if not the main) reason Castiel was paired with Gabe by the precinct five years ago- Milton's the funniest guy Castiel knows, let alone the kindest cop. When at first his open concern and affability was an annoyance, Gabriel steadily grew on him as he came to realize that it was his warmth that was his skill. His connections to people were what made him a better cop. It was an even better match considering Castiel's own deposition. For a hint, his nicknames at the academy was 'Cold Cassie' and 'No-fun Novak'. (What his colleagues lacked in originality they made up for in frequency and memorability.)

Evidently his inability to relate to others makes him 'unkind.'

While he'd be lying if he said he was offended, because he is not (as he is not offended by most things) Cas prefers the word detached. It's untrue to assume he does not care, but he simply has difficulty expressing his feelings. Always has. Frankly, he doesn't wish to. In his own mind, emotions mess with your ability to see what's right in front of you- and can often a true impairment when it comes to sensitive police officers like Gabriel. But Gabriel is a highly efficient detective, top notch in Cas's considerably strict book. He never lets his emotions cloud his judgement- and he's also one of the few people Detective Novak can call a trusted friend.

A rarity in itself, consider the long, long life he has led.

"Becky," Gabriel begins again, after letting the girl collect herself. Castiel rouses himself from his unfocused thoughts with slight annoyance at himself, returning his attention to the flighty bartender. _Focus, Novak. _"Please, your information could help us a lot."

The girl swallows and nods. "What do you wanna know?"

"Could you tell us who she was talking to? Any guys in particular that she seemed interested in?"

Becky deliberates for a moment. "I dunno...It was super duper busy tonight, lots of guys pass on through." Castiel and Gabriel share a glance at 'super duper' but otherwise stay silent. Her green eyes brighten for a moment, and she suddenly turns a vibrant shade of pink. "Oh...she did flirt with Dean a lot."

"Dean?" Castiel asks, rolling the name around on his tongue with his deep voice. _Perhaps she can help us after all, _he thinks, reiterating as he looks at the girl with aroused interest in his eyes.

"Yeah. He's our new bartender, just started this week. She tried flirting with him..." Becky blushed. "But all the girls flirt with Dean...he's really..." She cuts herself off there as her voice gets a little breathy. Cas remains stony faced while Gabriel covertly rolls his eyes. "And then..." She gives a little squeak, and if they thought she was blushing before they are quickly correct- Becky turns as red as a ripe tomato. "Then she started talking to S-Sam." She whispers the name with a quiet, fluttery reverence and Gabe wonders briefly if she's going to swoon.

"Sam?" Castiel asks, raising a coal eyebrow. He ignores the way she shivers as he says the name in his gravelly voice.

"Yeah. Dean's younger brother...Wow...and you think _Dean _is..."

Gabriel stops her right there before she melts. "Got an address for these two? A last name, at least?"

"N-No," she titters. She giggles, slightly embarrassed. "Whenever I speak to them...I never get very far."

Castiel inclines his black mussed head towards her, blue eyes searching the flappable girl's face for deception- even though he'll doubts he'll find it there. "Are these brothers by any chance brunette? Perhaps with long hair?"

Becky bobs her head. "Yeah, they both have brown hair. Dean's is short but Sam's..." she quivers but continues, "...his is longer...you know, like a waterfall of chestnut, all full and soft..." Her voice trails off as her eyes cloud dreamily.

"Riiiight," Gabriel says, smirking.

Castiel purses his lips. "Ms. R- I mean, Becky," the detective corrects quickly, "When was the last time you saw them?"

"A couple hours ago, actually." Her face falls in disappointment, like a forlorn puppy. "Once Sam left Dean left in a hurry without asking. He might get fired." But then she brightens up, jewel green eyes flickering with hope. "Oh, but he had been doing so well and only had a half hour of his shift left, so maybe the boss'll go easy on him. I'm sure he'll have a job when he comes back."

"Wouldn't count on it," Detective Milton mutters under his breath, and Becky tilts her head, confused. But then a rough voice calls from the back, yelling her name, and with quick apologies she flutters off to the kitchens.

Gabriel and Castiel finally look at each other, onboard the exact same train of thought.

"Retrieve the garage tape from Garth before he can see it," Castiel instructs Gabe quickly. "We need to take a look at 'Sam and Dean'."

The short detective grins. "You got it, Cassie. Maybe, if we're lucky, this'll be an open and shut case after all." He walks away, leaving Cas lost in thought in the bar.

"Maybe," he whispers hollowly, his mind spinning in his skull with this new information. He's never been the hopeful one- Gabriel's the one fueled by all that senseless optimism. Castiel Novak is a realist, at the very least, but also a steadfast officer with a great track record for solved cases. And if there's anything a homicide detective knows this is real life- not television. As odd and unusual as _his _life is, his human cases aren't always dramas wrapped in love triangles tangled in vengeful lovers and skeletons in the closet.

But this isn't a human case. Cas knows that for sure. He's a detective for a reason- not out the compelling sense of justice other officers feel, but because he was placed there by his Side. It's his duty to keep crimes like this under wraps and out of the human press, it's his job to find the culprits and bring them in front of their superiors. He's Fae first, detective second, and he makes sure that if any Fae go rogue and kill humans, they're caught and sufficiently punished outside of human law- _especially _when said crimes are committed in his Side's territory.

It's the MO that's driving him up the wall, the completely unfamiliar manner in which the woman was killed. It's like nothing he'd ever encountered before. And _nothing _is unfamiliar to Cas- he's been around too long to encounter something new.

And that makes this death all the more intriguing.

Considering the killer's unrecognizable method of killing, Castiel is positive that this case isn't just gonna be 'open and shut' as his partner hopes. That it's not just two rebellious brothers stirring up trouble for the Sides and ignorantly dancing their nature in front of humankind's noses (as was so often the trouble Cas and Gabe came up against most when the killer was Fae).

This is something different- different, and potentially _dangerous. _

Curiosity raging, he spins on a heel and hurries after his partner with uncharacteristic excitement brewing in his chest. But with that excitement comes anxiety and weariness- and rightly so.

Because Castiel has no idea how _right _he really is.


	3. Dean's Fun Train of Self-Deprecation

**Chapter Three**

_Dean Winchester's Fun Train of Self-Deprecation_

By the time Dean's crappy analog clock beeps six AM, Dean is practically all packed. In the half hour that Sam had been unconscious in the living room he'd packed what little possessions they had, taken out all of their spare cash and back-up collection of IDs and licenses, and burned the clothes he'd been wearing and Sam's blood-dappled shirt in the abandoned trash barrel in the alley next to their apartment.

But his mind is as busy as his body is. A nasty whirlwind of negative emotions ranging from guilt to anger to worry that has him clenching and unclenching his fists and digging his nails into the callused flesh of his palms, he paces the length of the living room over and over again waiting for Sam to wake up. Agonized thoughts ricochet in his mind like spiked rubber balls, bouncing relentlessly around and around until his breathing quickens and the signs of a full blown mental breakdown are evident.

_God, God, I did it again._

_Sammy's never gonna forgive me. Not this time, not after I promised._

_The police could come looking for us._

_Sam will have to quit his job and his college classes._

_I definitely can't go back to that job- way to fucking go, Dean._

Deep down, he knows that if he could go back in time he would do the same thing over again, without hesitation- there's really no contest. With Sammy's life on the line, there's no law he wouldn't break, no life worth the loss of his brother's. Plus the chick had been a psychotic bitch...but all of that is beside the point.

He did it. He killed someone.

Again.

Fuck!

Think he'd be used to the goddamn pain and the guilt- after all he was a repeat offender, wasn't he? Multiple counts of homicide usually says something about a man, didn't it, that he doesn't feel shit anymore no matter what he does and who he does it to? _As if. _And, _again_, too fucking soon for Dean's preference, he finds himself strolling down the always pleasant Memory Lane- a street that was starting to get a little crowded with ghosts of the past.

He remembers the first time, clearer than any other memory he has collected in his twenty-eight years. Clearer than Sammy's birth, clearer than his mother or father's death. Clearer than Sam's graduation, when he'd felt prouder than a PTA mom or when he and Jess got their first apartment- or when Sam had come home, drunk and devastated after finding out about Jess's infidelity.

That moment, the first time he 'fed' (having no other word to describe it) like that, the first time he took a life- it's frozen in his mind like a shard of glass, digging into his cerebellum like an unhealed wound. That face, _her_ face is burned in the back of his retinas, always there when he ponders the past and his mountains of mistakes.

Her name was Lisa Braeden.

They say your first true love is sweet. In Dean Winchester's case, it wasn't so much sweet as it was a big, hot mess of wanting to rip each other's clothes off until they both ended up slick and sweaty under silk sheets.

In other words, a hormonal roller coaster of raging teenage proportions.

Dean had been only seventeen at the time, Lisa six months his junior. Some might say they were too young, but they were both wild and crazy and from the moment Dean first saw her, he knew he wanted to see her naked. That was back when Dad was still alive and Sam wasn't old enough to have to deal with constant moving around and worry for the older brother who caused more trouble than he was worth.

Dean didn't know the gravity of the 'gift' he bore. Hell, he hadn't even been fully conscious of the almost animal magnetism he held over people- girls and boys alike. Being the cocky, arrogant, straight up _ignorant _teenager had was, he just knew that all it took was one touch, one smile, and people would line up to please him, girls would line up to ogle him, and boys would question their manhoods _and _sexuality when he showered in the locker room. Admittedly, his 'skills' weren't in full bloom at the time, just as his sexuality wasn't.

But never had Dean wanted a girl as bad as he wanted Lisa. All shiny black hair and brown eyes like dark pools, with skin kissed by the sun and curves she was truly lucky to have, considering her age. She was smart, cool, funny. Everything you could possibly like in a girl, she had. He was absolutely enchanted by her, and if the feelings hadn't been mutual (which most feelings towards Dean usually were), it would have been pretty creepy the way he stared after her like she was some exotic princess. And she held her own against him too, something that drove him even more wild. She didn't automatically succumb to Dean Winchester's charms or looks, and even when she did like him she didn't throw herself at him like so many others. She, in all honesty...was one of the very few that could pull Dean around on a string. She enjoyed the tease and really, Dean did too.

Even with all the tease and jokes, strings and sexual tension, they dated within a month of talking to one another. They were tangled up in bed sheets not a month after that.

Both of them were initially scared in the way all teens are when diving into their first time. But feelings of excitement, connection, and straight up hormonal lust won out. First loves were first loves, and Dean and Lisa had just _fit_. Clicking like puzzles pieces, connecting like magnets. So, for Dean, it just had to be her. There was no one else.

The shrill, shrieking sound of Sam's alarm clock drags Dean headfirst into memories. He tries to push them away, knowing it's only going to make him feel that much more shittier, but the alarm is a trigger and the memory a hot suffocating blanket that's not gonna let him breathe until he relives it, again. Soon Dean's world blurs and he's not in some crappy apartment anymore, but knee deep in a memory he wishes to God he didn't have.

_Dean groans irritably as the high-pitched, jarring beeps blares in his ears with the incessant, annoying nature of a tiny kid bouncing on his eardrums like a trampoline. He hums drowsily, shifting in his sheets. His eyelids flip open briefly, but he moans as daylight stabs at his eyes. He squeezes his eyes shut immediately, and sighs softly. _Don't wanna go to school, too comfortable, _he thinks, chuckling quietly to himself as he thinks of who he sounds like. _I'm as whiny as Sammy on a sick day._ He slaps the snooze button on the alarm, silencing the electronic yelping for five minutes more. Burrowing deeper into the warm sheets, he smiles at the soreness in his body because it reminds him off the night before, the awesome night that finally made him a man. It got kind of blurry towards the end, but the memory of how amazing it _felt _keeps him from questioning it too much past the memory of Lisa's naked body. So tanned, so beautiful...perfect- as beautiful as he had imagined so many times. He flips over, eyes still closed, and lets his arm drift over Lisa's hip._

_"Hey, baby...how you feelin'?"_

_She doesn't respond, and Dean assumes she's still sleeping. He pauses, smiling wide at the thought of doing last night over again._

Sex is awesome.

_But then he frowns, wondering if she would want to do the same. A sudden fear washes over him- _what if she didn't enjoy it? She's a girl, sometimes it hurts girls, right? _His heartbeat picks up in worry, and his green eyes spring open._

_"Lisa," he says, shaking her lightly. Her skin is cool under his fingers. She's turned on her side, away from him. "Lisa, hey, baby- wake up. I wanna know, hey, are you okay?"_

_She doesn't respond. Her breathing has stopped, she must be awake and listening. "Lisa? Hey, babe, are you alright? Did it...you know, hurt? I'm sorry if it did." He takes her silence as confirmation and his stomach drops._

_"Did I hurt you?" he whispers, planting a tender kiss on her shoulder. Her black hair is cascaded over her face, he can't see her expression. "I'm sorry, Lisa. Really."_

_He waits longer, rubbing her cool skin softly. A instinct prods the back of his mind, and he realizes he's waiting for the methodic rise and fall of her chest- waiting for breathing that doesn't come._

_"Lisa?" he asks, turning her over gently. She doesn't stir, and he brushes her hair off her face._

_When he sees the expression there, his mouth opens in a silent O of horror._

Oh God. Oh God.

_"Lisa! Lisa!" Soon he's screaming, screaming until his throat is hoarse and he's shaking her and she's smiling, God, she's smiling, what's wrong with her face, OH GOD- _WAKE UP LISA WAKE UP!

_LISA!_

Dean snaps himself out of the memory, feeling the echo of that paralyzing terror wash over him like a wave. His throat closes up and his eyes prick with a phantom burn. His heart, one so damaged and run so ragged, is tearing in half- the pain is indescribable. Someone has literally taken his heart from his chest and done their damnedest to mangle it with claws, nails, and spikes.

It's a pain Dean wishes every day he could grow used to. Today, though, it's understandably a little bit worse than before.

Lisa had died that night. Died probably while Dean was still screwing her, for fuck's sake, completely blissed out and alive and humming with the energy Dean knew now hadn't been just from the sex- no sex felt _that_ good. It was...everything, light and flame and desire, like Dean had been flying headlong into the sun like a rocket, the whole time being on the fringes of his pleasure threshold. Inches from exploding into oblivion, from going into nuclear meltdown. While using Lisa as a battery, he gasped and reeled and melted in the ecstasy of using her energy as his own, feeling stronger and greater than God himself.

He had_ stolen _her life that night- he had sucked her dry like a fucking rattlesnake, like a _monster._

Dean Winchester is a monster, he knows that all too well.

And, when he's in a particularly depressed mood, he'll point out it's an even worse punishment for him- barring Dean Winchester from physical attraction is like barring an alcoholic from Jack Daniels, a Trix Bunny from Trix. No one enjoys the pleasure of flesh more, but because of who- _what- _he was, no one should be more deprived of it than he. The constant, overwhelming craving in his chest was far more powerful than any druggie compulsion or alcoholic thirst. Because Dean's hunger is a _crafty _son of a bitch, smart and strategic, content to lie in wait until the Winchester is at his weakest or most vulnerable, or in some cases most aroused.

Which is often, to Dean's misfortune.

It's not his fault, particularly, that he's pretty much attracted to any sweet thing that could walk, no matter who she or he is- because even if Dean _wasn't _a soulsucking monster with a supernatural lust, he has one hell of sex drive and an considerably dirty minded imagination. One that his hunger always wields against him.

Every time he draws breath he's reminded he's a monster. Because while he's breathing air, those people he gorged himself on after falling off the rickety, ancient wagon of his restraint aren't. Those breaths should be theirs, but instead they belong to their killer's- it leaves Dean with a perpetual bitter taste in his mouth.

Like even the air around him knows he doesn't deserve it.

He wonders why he's even alive. Why he hasn't offed himself for the good of the world and its innocent occupants. But then he thinks about Sammy all alone and all suicidal thoughts are shoved roughly into a deep, small box in the back of his mind and stamped with the words "stupid and selfish" on the lid.

Sam argues that it's not in his control, that when he rarely kills it's never his fault. Oh, he can do no wrong in Sam's eyes. And even if part of himself knows his little brother is right, he isn't any closer to accepting himself than the second he became a murderer.

There are so many things about Dean that he knows are wrong.

He's actually got a list in his mind, one that grows every day. Near the top of the list is...he has a freakin' regiment for feedings. Jesus Christ, he has a goddamn method for whatever the hell he does! Like he's just popping out for fast food, going on a McDonald's run! How is that not evil?

It's not even a very complicated method, either. When Dean gets close to losing it, or when he knows he won't be able to control it anymore if he doesn't get _something,_ he goes to the dingiest, dirtiest bar and sits. And waits. And listens, until he recognizes other dark souls without families to mourn them and with sins dappling their pasts like breadcrumbs. It's not difficult. Mistakes fall swiftly from drunk, loose lips and when he can't take the hunger anymore he just smiles at his target, gives the poor sap a swift pat on the back, and seconds later they're following him out into the alley like lambs to the slaughter.

He doesn't try to kill. Usually leaves them unconscious near the bar where no one would look twice, but sometimes his own resolve slips through his fingers and he just..._snaps._

It's happened two times too many, after Lisa. After last night...three times.

Four souls he's going to burn in Hell for.

"Dean?" The voice is cracked, tired, and rusty.

The older Winchester freezes with his back to his brother. _Fucking grow a pair, already, you pussy, _a voice barks in his ear. Dean nearly winces at the voice's eerie similarity to his father's. _If you can't suck up your shit like a man, at least save your pansy-assed drama for later instead of showing it to Sam._

Dean slides on a blank expression, but John Winchester's voice growls in his ear. _Sam isn't stupid, he can see right through that._

_Right. Brave face. _His features slide into the correct position and the John in his head quiets. Locking his emo fears away, he loses himself in the relief that his brother is awake and talking again.

"Sam," he says, relieved, scrubbing his face and turning to face his younger brother. He meets a tired pair of mossy green eyes, half open and glazed.

"Dean," he groans. His voice is as scratchy as sandpaper and Dean internally winces. Brotherly concern wells up in his chest, making his legs move closer to the tall Winchester lying limply on their old leather couch. "I feel...I feel..."

"Like shit?" Dean guesses, looking his ashen brother up and down. He certainly looks like shit. Sam's color is a bit too gray for his own liking, and his breathing is slow- but thankfully, deep and full breaths, instead of the shallow pants that had kept Dean worried at Sam's side for the first ten minutes of his unconsciousness.

Sam only nods in assent, shutting his eyes and swallowing thickly. "Roofies suck _ass."_

Dean nods again, giving his brother a cocksure grin and teasing glare. "Sammy, how many times do I have to tell you? If a sexy woman comes and talks to you, walk away- she only wants your money."

Sam shoots his brother a dirty glare with a supreme helping of bitchiness, heavy eyes suddenly bright and blazing. He chucks a pillow with as much force as he can muster at his brother's face. It falls short and practically kisses Dean's broad shoulder before it falls to the ground. "Ass. But I guess that says a lot about you and the sexy women you talk to."

Dean clucks his tongue, smile growing more antagonistic by the second. "Sam, jealousy's such an ugly color on you. Besides, you know how it is. They can look, but they can't touch." He winks suggestively at his brother, who rolls his eyes. But the smallest smile that forms on his pale lips is enough for Dean, and he can finally stop being so goddamn cheerful.

He turns so Sam can't see the smile on his face crumble or his eyes harden. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and can't bear to look Sam in the eyes when he asks, "You okay?"

He blinks and suddenly he's back in that damn elevator, with that woman gazing at him like there's nothing else in her world, the starving creature that demanded her life in his chest. The sound of his brother, broken and pleading...

_"Dean...no, don't. Dean...please."_

_"Sorry, Sammy."_

The older Winchester is lucky he's turned away. His handsome face is soon layered with pain and self-disgust and his heart feels like it's being grinded by a meat mincer in his chest.

_Pussy, _the voice grouses again.

Sam's watching him like a hawk from his couch. He sits up slowly and quietly and tries to ignore how that makes his vision briefly swim. Leaning heavily on the back of the couch, he remains in a sitting position and rakes a hand through his disheveled hair. He clears his throat, but it feels like a frog has made it its home. "Yeah. I mean, thanks to you."

Dean can feel Sam's gaze on him and he gives a small grunt in response. G_oddammit. Why does he sound so fuckin' grateful? Jesus, why is so goddamn good? He has to hate me inside, he must- I killed someone...after he begged me not to. He has to hate me. __  
_

"Dean. I mean it." His brother pauses, swallowing hard. "If you hadn't- if you hadn't been there- she would've-"

Dean waves a hand, cutting him off there. "Don't, don't go there, Sammy. I don't...I don't like thinking about what could have happened. All I know is what _did._"

"Dean." His voice grows damnably gentle. He knows not to look at Sam, because those forest green eyes would be turned all full puppy power.

"Sam," he replies coldly, eyebrows slanting down fiercely, to end the subject.

Suddenly Sam springs to his feet, his long legs surprisingly steady. His expression is more pissed than Dean could have expected, and Dean's fear crashes down on him like a ton of bricks.

_Is this it? Is he finally going to tell me how he feels, how I know he's felt since day one? How much I disgust him?_

_How much he hates me?_

Dean almost flinches when Sam lurches forward, and he doesn't even let his body tense. Whatever Sam does to him, he deserves it and more. And he would never lay a hand on Sammy, not ever. He grits his teeth in preparation for the pain that's sure to follow.

So you could say he was a little shocked when Sam crushes him in an embrace so tight it's more of a strangle than a hug. His long arms sweep around Dean's stocky shoulders and Sam's so fucking tall that Dean's face collides square with his bare shoulder. Dean's eyebrows shoot up so far they almost reach his hairline.

"Fuck you, Dean, and your stupid, stupid tendency to make yourself feel like crap." Sam's voice is intense but with an underlying current of warmth and endearment that suddenly makes Dean feel like wrapping his arms around Sammy and hugging him back, but he keeps his hands at his sides. He's tries to convince himself he's just awkward because his little brother is both hugging him and shirtless, and that's weird, but he knows it's because if he hugs back it'll chip at the carefully built wall in his mind that keeps him from getting too..._chick flicky._

Sam leans back, with his hands gripping Dean's shoulders tight, and stares him dead in the eyes. His mint orbs dig into Dean's bright greens, and Dean knows he can't look away or else Sam will tackle him, sit on him, and _make _him look. Sam was fucking stubborn that way.

It's happened before, and Dean could do without a repeat. He might be able to beat anyone in a fist fight, but when it came to crushing people to death with his frickin massive size? Sam Winchester was the goddamn champion.

Sam's powerful gaze commands his attention, and Dean almost rolls his eyes. An affectionate, stubborn little ass, his brother is. "You saved my life. That's all that matters. From a psychotic, murdering bitch- major plus by the way- but you _saved _my life. Get it?"

The older Winchester shifts his jaw, and finally casts his eyes away. "Yeah, Sam, I get it. Get the hell off me, bitch. You're half naked, man. You know I don't swing that way." Dean brushes Sam's arms weakly off his shoulders, and Sam lets a small smirk spread across his face as he lets his muscular arms drop to his sides. Sam opens his mouth to ask _why _exactly he doesn't have a shirt on, but then he remembers his brother's practically OCD tendency to get rid of everything that could trace them to crime scenes. It wasn't exactly a bad habit to have, but it could get annoying.

"I owe you, jerk," Sam said. "Get off your train of self depreciation and let's go get some breakfast. " His eyes pass over the apartment and he feels a pang of sadness. "Already packed, huh?"

The younger brother sighs. _Bye college. Bye job. It was fun while it lasted._

"Yeah," Dean grunts. "Hurry up and put a frickin shirt on. Your naked chest is not something I wanna see, let alone get hugged by- but seeing as that ship has sailed, at least spare what vision I have left and cover your nasty barechested self."

Sam makes to punch his brother in the arm, but Dean neatly dodges with a mischievous grin. _Back to his screwball self, _Sam thinks. _For now, anyway. _Sam holds out his arms, curling his fingers repeatedly in a bring-it-on gesture.

"I could hug you again, if that's what you want." He steps forward threateningly, and Dean holds up his arms as a shield.

"Goddamn it, Sam, I told you, you're not my type!"

Sam busts out laughing, and turns to go get a shirt from the bedroom. Dean calls after him, trying to keep a laugh out of his own voice.

"You couldn't handle my sexy anyway, you girl. Speaking of girls, your manboobs are getting a bit too flabby, Sammy. You should try working out.

His response takes the form of Sam's middle finger.


End file.
